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“Whenever you are ready, Miss Crawford,” he said.

“I believe most of the conspirators have temporarily left London,” she began. “I don’t remember where they all went or even when they will reunite, but they’ll regroup within a week or two of November 5. As Lord Maidstone said, they’ve thought through every element of their plot, including having a ship at harbor, ready to transport Guy Fawkes away from England after he escapes the city.”

Maidstone grunted his displeasure even as Simon marveled at the traitors’ forethought. “How are they to be prevented from seeing their plot through to its nefarious end?” Simon asked.

“A member of the House of Lords will have a dinner party at the end of the month,” she said. “During that party, a letter will be delivered to a servant, warning his master to stay away from the chambers on the opening day of Parliament. At first, the gentleman isn’t sure whether to take the message seriously, but he decides to take it to Robert Cecil, who brings it to the attention of the king when the king returns to London. The king orders a search of Parliament House.”

“And they find the gunpowder,” Martha guessed.

“Not immediately,” Miss Crawford said. “But men go back on the evening of November 4. That’s when they discover Guy Fawkes in the undercroft and arrest him.”

“Why on earth would they wait until the final hour?” Maidstone said. “A few minutes too late and all would be lost.”

“Cecil would want to catch the perpetrators red-handed,” Simon said grimly. “To send a message to all other would-be traitors.”

“I think that’s right,” Miss Crawford said. “Cecil must be very good at his job, because within a week, every member of the conspiracy is accounted for—most are dead.”

“Cecil is extremely powerful,” Simon said, “and utterly ruthless when crossed.”

A flicker of awareness lit Miss Crawford’s eyes. “He’s the one you said has spies everywhere.”

“He is. And I would hazard a guess that the letter you refer to will not be the first Cecil has heard of this conspiracy.”

“Perhaps not,” Maidstone said, “but it is obviously the catalyst for action that saves countless lives and the government as we know it.” He came to his feet. “Who is the gentleman who receives the warning note?”

Lines crossed Miss Crawford’s forehead. “I’ve been trying to remember. He’s titled. Lord Mount or Mont-something, I think.”

“Lord Montague?” Martha suggested.

“No.”

“Lord Montgomery?”

In obvious frustration, Miss Crawford shook her head. “I don’t think that’s it either.”

“It will come to you,” Simon said, genuinely believing it was true. Already, he was astounded by her ability to recall so many details from a history lesson given years before. “What of the person who sent the letter? Did one of the conspirators succumb to a prick of conscience?”

“I don’t know.”

Maidstone leaned forward. “You do not know, or you do not remember?”

“I don’t know. Nobody does.” She shrugged. “It’s one of the great mysteries surrounding the gunpowder plot. Many historians believe it was sent by one of the conspirators. The most popularly held belief is that it was Tresham because his sister was married to the gentleman.” She paused. “That’s it! That’s how we can figure out who received the warning. He’s Francis Tresham’s brother-in-law.”

“Lord Monteagle,” Martha said. “His wife, Elizabeth, is Mr. Tresham’s sister.”

Simon stared at his sister. “How ever did you know that?”

Martha shrugged. “Ladies have to talk about something whilst the gentlemen are discussing politics. Familial relationships are a common enough topic.”

Along with desired familial relationships, no doubt. Simon was well aware that ladies regularly bandied his name about in parlors, wishing to make a match for their daughters or granddaughters. Setting that discomforting thought aside, he focused on what Miss Crawford had been about to say. “So, centuries later, no one knows who sent the letter?”

“No. Lord Monteagle didn’t recognize the handwriting. I assume Cecil didn’t either.”

“No one ever claimed responsibility?” Maidstone asked.

“Not as far as historians know.”

“Miss Crawford.” Martha’s voice was unusually hushed. “What if you are the one who wrote it?”